


A Very Merry Unbirthday

by coffeecakelatte



Category: Pet Shop Boys
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecakelatte/pseuds/coffeecakelatte
Summary: What does an unbirthday call for? Changing places, of course! Set in late 2019.
Relationships: Chris Lowe/Neil Tennant
Comments: 17
Kudos: 14





	A Very Merry Unbirthday

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my good friend [Gymnopedies'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blancmange/pseuds/Gymnopedies) birthday and published on my own birthday. This is a very, very goofy fic.
> 
> Note: This is a work of fiction. The characters herein are based on real people, but the words and events are completely made up. They are not intended to be mistaken for fact, and no libel is intended.

I’d been thinking about it a lot, I swear. It had _not_ come out of nowhere. But it must have seemed that way to Chris, for him to drop his freshly made teacup all over the floor.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I can. And that’s twenty pounds you owe me, young man.”

“Young man,” he scoffed, ignoring the mess beneath his feet, the fine loose-leaf seeping into the carpet and scenting the room. It was a lovely masala chai, bought in India as a little keepsake, and Chris kept nicking it for his morning cuppa. At least he didn’t put milk in it, _that_ would have been a mess. “I turned _sixty_ this year and you turned--”

“Shhhhhhhh.” I put a finger to my smiling lips. “I know very well what age I am.”

“And...and…”

“Yes. You heard me right. I’d like to be fucked.”

At a loss, he fetched a paper towel and sank to his feet, dabbing at the mess. His cheeks were red and he couldn’t look at me. Cute. “I can’t believe it,” he was muttering to himself, tapping away and only managing to grind the leaves into the carpet even further.

“Here,” I said, chuckling, and crouched down beside him. I took the towel from his hands and wiped down the stain. No harm done.

“Thanks. Now I can go watch the game.”

“Hey, wait a minute! What do you...think?”

“Of?”

“The game. No, stupid, my proposal.”

He gasped, the very picture of goofy, can’t-deal-with-this-shit deflection. “Yes! _Yes!_ I’ll marry you. Where’s the wedding? Aruba? Fiji? Jamaica?”

“The _me-wanting-to-get-buggered_ ness of it all, Chris.” 

“Oh.” The blush returned, only this time it was crimson rather than red. He stood up, brushing himself off, and eyed the sofa. “Er. Um. Can I ‘ave a think about it first?”

 _He’s not into it._ “Sure,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too disappointed. It was my own fault if I was, anyway. I’d dropped it into our conversation as casual as if I was talking about the weather, when in reality the thought had consumed an outsize chunk of my brain for the past few months. You know that statistic they throw around, that men think about sex every six seconds? For me that held true, only it was a bit more specific: wanting to get fucked by a certain synth player. Oh, why am I being coy? You know who I’m talking about. That man. Over there. The one in the pink toupee. (Which, I may add, I’ve vetoed during sex. Along with the disco ball hat he so loves to wear. It’s fine in press photos, but it rather kills the mood to be staring at a cyborg when you’re trying to properly lay someone.)

“Thanks. I’ll tell ye when the game’s done.” Then he plunked himself down in front of the telly and promptly ignored me.

Typical man.

* * *

The bastard left me hanging for six hours. He wouldn’t even respond to my #PetTexts. 

So, what could I do? I went on with my day, as though nothing had ever happened. We often lived parallel lives like this. I left him to his game and did a bit of shopping, picked up a six-pack of boxers for him (he still buys his undergarments in packs, if you can believe it) and a bottle of wine for me. I had almost forgot about the whole thing when I got a buzz-buzz.

_get yer posh arse over here i’ve got some news for you_

Um.

_News?_

_yes_

Then a line of “emoji” that I couldn’t begin to understand. (I just learned that word recently! Score one for me.) 

_I’m finishing up at Tesco’s, I can be home in 30!_ I typed, a smile creeping onto my face. There was something to be said about the new technology, how it made one feel very loved if used right. Or maybe it was just the people using it. Even though that line of funny little pictures made absolutely no sense, I could tell he was having fun, and his affection for me came through loud and clear. Aww. Guess I am a sentimental old queen after all. 

_i’ll be here waiting💖_

I stuck my phone back in my pocket and went on with my day, all jittery. Hmm. Maybe I should make him wait as well.

...then again, maybe not.

* * *

When I came home, the door was locked. I rang the doorbell and soon he opened the door. He looked as normal as I’d ever seen him. No stupid hat. No stupid jacket. Just him in his regular old STUSSY hoodie and jeans. And a sly grin.

“That was thirty-two minutes,” he said, letting me in.

“Excuse me? You were _six hours_ ,” I told him, hanging my coat up. “You’ve no reason to lecture me when you were the one to--”

He pulled me to him and locked me in a kiss.

Quite a passionate one I might add. It was all I could do to keep up. He wasn’t usually this passionate, certainly not to the point of attempting to remove my shirt with one hand and my belt with the other.

“Chris,” I tried to say, tearing away as much as I could from his (very nice) mouth. “What’s...got into you?”

“Had a think about it,” he said. The last part was mouthed into my neck. “And...I think I can give you what you want.”

_Oh._

“You think?”

He abandoned the belt buckle in favour of unbuttoning my shirt from the bottom up. “Well--s’been ages since I pitched, an’ maybe me _arm_ needs a bit of limberin’ up, if you know what I mean.” His accent was starting to thicken with arousal. As were...other things.

It had indeed been a very long time since we’d swapped. Not out of any malicious intent, mind you; Chris always seemed as happy to catch as I was to pitch. And we weren’t in any lack of positions, either. The Internet was fabulous for such things; with one click of the mouse we were greeted to a whole new world of buggery. Course we couldn’t do any of the more acrobatic ones, being _cough cough let’s not get into it_ , but we’d had a lot of fun with the relaxed ones. And yet even that was getting stale by now. So my mind had begun to wander. 

Very early on--the first time, in fact--Chris had tried fucking me. But I couldn’t relax enough, physically or mentally, to accept another man inside me. It simply would not fit. Barely a finger would. And so...I guess we forgot about it. Chris taught me how to fuck him and we carried on like that for a long, long time. All was well.

It was funny how, thirty (thirty-five...nearly _forty_ , my God) years later, everything swapped back round. We both knew what was on the table tonight and it was making us act like randy Oxford students. Dozens of albums and videos and interviews later, here we were, back to where it all began: a fervent but failed hookup in my flat. 

Only this time I wanted us to succeed.

He grabbed my wrist and tugged me to the bedroom. I felt my youthful lust ignite. I wanted him. No matter what age he was, I would inevitably want him. No matter what stupid disguises he wore, no matter what a typical man he was, I found him terribly attractive. His voice still had the power to make me weak in the knees, and his eyes--behind the cover of those omnipresent sunglasses--still crinkled in a way that stirred my senses. 

But now those eyes weren’t soft and loving. They were heavy-lidded and clear.

“I’ll ‘ave you know I quit me marathon because of you.”

Well. Wasn’t expecting _that._ I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh. His seriousness only made it funnier.

“You think this is funny?” He pushed me down on the bed. “I don’ even know who won the championship game. I couldn’t get ye out of me ‘ead.”

“Oh, no, not the _championship game!_ Heavens to Murgatroyd!”

He tilted his head and looked at me curiously. “Heavens to…”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Snagglepuss, even.”

“ _Snagglepuss?!_ ” Now we were both laughing. Anyone who thinks we’re a couple of stick-in-the-mud old grumps need only watch us in bed. “I think thass’ a bit _before my time._ ”

Before I could protest, he was on me, finishing what he had started and getting me out of my shirt. He slipped off his own and undid his trousers, and the goofy mood faded as I stared at his...boxer-briefs. _Not_ boxers. Had I been buying wrong for him this whole time? But never mind that--boxer-briefs were better. Way, _way_ , better. Because they instead showed the line of his cock, finely etched and hard inside the cotton casing. All of a sudden I felt very young, like I was seeing it for the first time--a guilty, delectable heat colouring my cheeks. I wanted it. Not in my hand and not in my mouth, but deep inside me. 

Absently I reached and began to stroke it. I had done this many times, to get him off first before attending to myself--but somehow, knowing where exactly it was going made me want to take it slow. Something nice about sex at this age was that it didn’t need to be over in ten minutes; it could last exactly as long as you wanted it to. We were flopped on the bed, facing each other. I drew close to him and rubbed him oh so gently over the thin cotton. I stroked and kissed the moans out of his mouth, paying close attention to how he sounded. Once it was fully hard I could guide it inside me. Or wait. _He_ could guide it inside me. He could take care of me tonight. 

“I get to fuck you,” he breathed in my ear. “Neil Tennant finally gets it from the other end.”

“Oh _don’t_ say my name, you’ll make me blush,” I exclaimed, kicking my legs. It was embarrassing, hearing my full name, and yet I have to admit it turned me on. _Neil Tennant gets it from the other end._ The arousal spread first into my back, then through my entire body, making me feeble and needy. He had his hand twisted on my belt, holding me in place as he worked the buckle open. I let him hold me. I let myself grow weak to his touch. I even held myself up so that he could whip the belt off me, and press me to the sheets. I was scared, and I was exhilarated. 

“S’my lucky day. Is it my birthday?”

“Erm, no, your birthday was about a month ago. And it’s not my birthday either.”

He shrugged. “Oh well. Guess it’s somebody’s birthday somewhere. Now getup.”

His voice sounded gruff, with a tinge of menace. I couldn’t be imagining that. His natural voice was so laid-back, like the rest of him, that even the slightest hint of dominance stood out. Still waters run deep, and this was a tremor on the surface of a lake that went to the depths of the earth. I got up immediately.

He gripped my trousers and tugged them down in one go. Then he looked at my nakedness unerringly. I did actually blush this time, biting my finger and looking away.

“Finally” is all he said, before he came crashing down on top of me.

In his passion I was able to do very little. He grabbed hold of my wrists and pinned them above me, and began a very slow grind, cock-to-cock. His clothed, mine bare. Not, I suspect, as an end in itself, but to provoke me. How else could I explain the look in his eyes? It was evil. We were evil. He made me feel deliciously depraved, feeling another man’s cock and wanting to spread my legs and take it. 

“Howzat?”

“-- _mmph?_ ” I could physically not form words. This had never happened to me before. Me, wordless. Picture it.

“Perfect.” And then, just as I was starting to derive some satisfaction from the frot, he stood up.

“Tease,” I managed to spit out.

He nodded. “Where d’you keep the lube?”

 _Oh God, we’re really doing this._ “Drawer.”

“Rubbers?”

“Same place.” It was incredible how much of an effort it was to speak. 

He got out both and coated his fingers in the lube. “Ready?”

“Ready or not, here I--” I stopped myself, partly because that was terribly cheesy and partly because...I _was_ ready. I knew it would take some getting used to, but I could handle that. And I wanted--no, longed--to be stretched around him. The thought was alluring: testing the limits of what I could take, and having him take me.

He went slow with one lubed finger, and once I’d got used to that, two. It was strange having someone inside me, and it was even stranger to catch a glimpse of us in the bedroom mirror. I saw me with my legs spread and him between them. I saw the briefest twitches whenever he brushed my prostate. (I’d nearly forgot what such stimulation could be like.) I saw his expression, even more evil in the faroff reflection. 

Watching us turned me on, and soon he noticed that my attention wasn’t entirely on him. “Thinking again?”

“Mirror. Look.” At least now I was capable of two words at a time. And pointing.

He turned and saw the mirror behind us. “Izzat voyeurism or narcissism?”

“It’s us.” I was about to say something further when he dug his fingers inside me and twisted, now thoroughly massaging my prostate. I shivered and collapsed on the bed, feeling this strange pleasure in my lower half. A delightfully unfamiliar feeling, and even though it made my cock twitch, it wasn’t in my cock at all. It came from a deeper, darker place. I was loose and ready, yearning for something better than fingers. He still hadn’t freed himself yet.

“Alright,” he said, reaching for the light. He dimmed it so I had to squint. He stood and, breathing deeply, took off his pants. What I had felt and sensed for so long was now right in front of me. We were now naked and emotions were running high. My pulse quickened as I stared. After a few moments of indulging my fascination, I threw my head back and spread my legs.

At this blatant display of submission, his eyes lit up. He slid the rubber on and got into bed with me. He took hold of his cock and nudged it in.

This felt nothing like fingers. It was far thicker (or at least it felt like it) and I was thoroughly unprepared for the heat, the stretch, the tension. Oh God, just like last time, I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t, I couldn’t--

“Relax.”

The dominance packed in that one word was astonishing. It had all the power of a hypnotist. I went limp and took more and more of him, tears springing to my eyes. A genuine fear was welling up in me, alongside a barely tangible thrill. More fear than excitement, honestly. That was, until my eye was caught by that blessed mirror. I couldn’t see his cock, but I knew exactly what was happening to me, and to watch myself being taken turned the ratio on its head. _Here I am, getting fucked for the first time in thirty-eight years. And he is doing it beautifully._ All of a sudden, by seeing it, I could feel all the little details I was missing: the hand rubbing my thigh in soothing motions, the other hand caressing my collarbone, the mouth sinking words of love into my neck. I turned to us instead and looked at his face, which he promptly buried in my neck as he worked the last inch into me.

“Y’finally relaxed,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied. It came out in a giggly huff, borne out of messy, delirious dizziness. My heart seemed to lift. So much of what I had worried about, gone in that one moment.

He shifted and churned inside me, in mini-movements that only served to provoke rather than satisfy. I then realised what I wanted him to do. 

“You scared or something?” I teased, very much aware of the great irony at play here. “Fuck me.”

His thighs gripped my hips, and his hands trapped my arms. I felt one nice hard drive, then another and--oh God. Hold on tight. He had a rough and jerky rhythm at first that made me feel greatly unbalanced, until he figured out his pattern, and then I was simply along for the ride. At some point, his grasp on my arms loosed and I slipped away so that I could tug him close. I wanted his head on my neck, and I wanted to tell him all the things that were running through my head. I managed the first but not the second. My mind was going so fast and I was in such a thrill that I couldn’t relay any of it to him. Kissing him would suffice. I kissed his cheek, and he turned and kissed my mouth, and we went like that for a while, him sliding along in his nice steady rhythm and exchanging the odd kiss. Soon it morphed into a gentle snog, and his hips stopped working as fast, eventually coming to a halt. The only movement between us was the slow dance of our tongues. He was still buried deep inside me and I loved it.

“You close?” I asked him.

“Could come any time. God, I love being old.”

“I think you’re the first gay man I’ve ever heard say those words.”

“Oh, fuck off!” he said, and stuck his tongue in my ear. We were back to being insufferable kids again. “Y’know what I mean. We’ve been ‘ere--thirty minutes? Forty? An’ I feel like I could fuck you like this for _days_.”

“Well then. If you’re not gonna come, what about me?”

He gripped my cock just then and gave it a rough wank. His hips began to work again to a frenzied rhythm and--oh, so _that_ was why it drove him nuts when I did that. I would often wank him while fucking him and never quite understood why it made him so wild. Now, I got it. The prostate stim plus the cock stim: breathtaking. I slid back and he captured the space between us, desperate to make me--

I shot high up into the air. I could see it in the bloody mirror. It arced and landed, thankfully, on our bodies and not on the bed. Seeing myself come was, if anything, even more thrilling than feeling it. I’d been driven to orgasm by him _fucking me._ As I was coming down (no, actually, feeling it was pretty thrilling too--those shock waves were splendid), I could see his breath quickening and his body tensing. From this angle I could watch him too. I had one eye on the mirror and one eye on him. When he came, the muscles in his back flexed, and he shuddered all over me like a human earthquake. I turned my attention fully to him and watched his eyes flicker fast with the effects of his climax. They shut for a while. When they opened again, they’d gone dark and dewy.

So that was it.

Of course we went all soft and mushy with the comedown, and of course he laughed and made a few very lewd jokes about the resulting mess on his chest, and of course I was the one to go get the washcloth because he couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed. When we were finished, I grabbed his bare bottom and gave it a nice squeeze. 

“Tomorrow night, Chris Lowe gets it from the other end.”

“Damn right he does.” He started rubbing that sensitive spot on my chest that I like. “Why’s it the other end, anyway? What’s the first end?”

“Dunno. I was wondering that myself.”

He yawned, and in the process managed to nearly swallow the “I love you” he was trying to say, so that it came out more like _awwwwwwwr luhye._ “Sorry,” he said, once the moment had passed. “‘M tired.”

“I can see that.”

“I really do love you. And tonight was brilliant.”

“Yeah.” I reflected on how calm I felt. I would have thought I’d be a lot shakier. But Chris was so good at making me feel comforted. Through his touch, mostly: stroking me, soothing me, petting me. I’m glad he plays the synths, his hands have stayed lovely and soft. “Yeah. I liked it rather a lot. We should do it again.”

“I love hearing you say that.” He stroked my face, and then, I--with spectacularly unfortunate timing--yawned back. “God, s’like a gaping chasm,” he said. “What exactly d’you put in there, to make it open so wide?”

I started rubbing his crotch. He gave me an impish grin and pulled me in for another kiss. 

And do you know, we fell asleep just like that: arms round each other, my hand cradling his cock, and both of us thinking about the many nights like this to come. 


End file.
